


Chiaroscuro

by bitseaa



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oikawa likes to draw, so he draws Iwaizumi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27661321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitseaa/pseuds/bitseaa
Summary: It’s widely known that Oikawa Tooru loves to play volleyball. It’s lesser known that he loves to do art. He supposes it was only a matter of time before Iwaizumi found out.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 3
Kudos: 117





	Chiaroscuro

It’s widely known that Oikawa Tooru loves to play volleyball. It’s lesser known that he loves to do art. He supposes it was only a matter of time before Iwaizumi found out.

It's become a nightly ritual of sorts, after he finishes his homework, to flick on the lamp and sit down at his desk. He likes the way it casts the room in shadows, like the glow of chiaroscuro in a pleasantly fuzzy painting. Feels there’s more to be had in the dark—more to be felt.

So it’s no surprise when on a Friday evening he turns off the lights in his room and sits by the light of his lamp, fingers spread over smooth, cream-colored paper. He has plans for a sleepover with Iwaizumi later, but for now it’s just him and a chance to decompress. His fingers turn the pencil in his hand methodically.

He’s always preferred graphite, the degree of control it gives. So many seem drawn to the allure of color, to the splash of paint, but personally he’s always felt like he’s fighting the brush when he paints. It’s impossible to make it do what he wants, the complexity of color just muddling his thoughts. No, Oikawa’s always preferred straightforward and steady, something clearly defined and anchoring—whether that be people or pastime. The face of a boy—one he’s grown alongside all this time—flashes in his mind, and he sets pencil to paper. 

There’s something sacred, he thinks, in the lines of a face, in putting them to paper. For what could capture the breadth of human emotion more than expression? He’s learned to control his own, to put on a façade, a show, and this in turn has served him in learning to capture the complexities of comportment. He’s always liked to translate the stories the curve of a lip has to tell.

Mindlessly, the pencil glides against the paper, leaving grainy trails wherever it dances. Over the arch of the eyebrows, down to the curve of the eyes, down to the slope of the nose, down to the twist of the lips. He hatches lines, tucked neatly under the curve of the chin. 

He pulls back, momentarily, out of the trance. Staring back at him sits a picture of himself, expression somber in a way he never allows it to fall in the presence of others. On paper, though, he leaves himself bare, desperately trying to convey the heavy feeling settled in his chest. He gets so caught up in the moment, in filling in the shading, that he doesn’t hear the knocking at his bedroom door. Iwaizumi barges in a moment later.

“Oi! Shittykawa, what could you possibly be doing that is so important you can’t even open your damn door?” he demands, gruff and faux-annoyed. A grin lights up Oikawa’s face before he can stop it. He drops the pencil, turning to face his friend. 

“Iwa-chan! Sorry, sorry, got caught up in my thoughts.” It’s then his friend comes closer and notices the sketchbook sitting in front of him.

“What’s that?” he asks, and Oikawa’s heart stops. The other doesn’t seem to notice that he freezes, and sits down in the spare chair Oikawa always keeps next to his desk for when they study together.

“Uh,” the setter manages, reaching out to shut the cover of his sketchbook. Fingers wrap around his wrist before he can do it, though. With his free hand, Iwaizumi pulls the book over to him.

“You draw?” he asks, and he doesn’t sound surprised or judging, just curious. Oikawa swallows.

“Ah, yeah,” he admits, “I’m not very good, though.” 

“Bullshit,” Iwaizumi grunts, staring at the paper, “Christ Oikawa, how long have you been doing this? This is amazing.” Usually Oikawa appreciates Iwaizumi’s blunt honesty, but he really doesn’t appreciate how hard it’s making his chest pound right now. 

“Uh,” he says, because apparently he doesn’t know how to respond with anything else, “A while, I guess. Started as stress management when I hurt my knee back in middle school.” Iwaizumi lets out a low whistle. 

“I’d believe it,” he responds, eyes still locked on the drawing. Oikawa clenches his fists into the fabric of his pants, overwhelmed.

“It’s far from perfect,” the setter argues, leaning over to study the picture himself. The ace’s thumb traces the edge of the paper. 

“You’re right,” Iwaizumi returns, fixing Oikawa with an inscrutable look, “don’t get me wrong, the drawing is fantastic, but it doesn’t quite look like _you._ ” 

“Huh?” Oikawa asks, confused, because it _is_ a picture of him, and a moment ago, his friend had just been singing its praises. 

“Your eyes are just more alive, I guess. I don’t know, I don’t do this shit,” Iwaizumi bites out, seemingly embarrassed. Oikawa blinks, mouths the word to himself. _Alive._ A smile climbs its way up into the corners of his mouth, and he leans forward—perhaps too far—into the other’s space.

“Pray tell, Iwa-chan, what else did I get wrong?”

Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything, just stares at him for a moment. Oikawa’s breath catches as a hand, tanner and broader than his own, settles on his cheek. 

“It’s just different,” his friend says softly, “the real thing.” Fingers glide down his jaw, settling on his chin and tilting it so that his face catches the light. 

“Different how?” Oikawa asks. It comes out of hardly more than a whisper, scared to shatter the sense of quiet and comfort.

“Just different,” Iwaizumi insists and, _oh_ , Oikawa can feel the other’s breath feeling softly against his parted mouth now. Heat, not entirely unpleasant, creeps up his cheeks.

“Oh,” he breathes, dumbly. Iwaizumi falls into silence. The hand remains where it is. 

Oikawa doesn’t know how long they stare at each other, just that it feels like an eternity and he really, _really_ wants to lean in a little closer, bridge those last few centimeters. He tries to ignore the disappointment that wells up in the pit of his stomach when the hand falls and Iwaizumi leans back.

“You’re not bad though,” the other mutters eventually, “it’s just that nothing could compare to the original.” Oikawa’s breath catches in his throat.

“Hm?” he hums, not trusting himself to keep the hope out of his voice were he to say anything else.

“Nothing, nothing.” The other stands and reaches for the TV remote on his nightstand. Oikawa watches him move, something like longing in his gaze “Now come on, I came over for a movie marathon and we’re damn well going to have one.“

The setter smiles and nods, joining Iwaizumi on his bed as the other puts on some action film he’s been excited about. It’s a bit of a tight fit—their legs press together and their sides smoosh against each other, but it’s comfortable all the same. And if later he pretends to drift off on Iwaizumi's shoulder, well, what can he say? He’s got a craft to perfect, he needs his rest.

\--✦--  
  


He doesn’t draw himself quite as often after that, turns to mastering a different face, one that is perhaps as familiar. It’s challenging, and now he sort of sees what Iwaizumi meant. Nothing can compare to the original. 

He can never quite capture the honesty of Iwaizumi’s smile, nor the curve of the dimple that forms when he’s really, genuinely amused. The hair never seems to sit right, doesn’t hold that same sense of familiarity the real thing does. It’s frustrating—he’s certainly spent enough time staring, he should be able to get this right.

After a week of trying he still hasn’t given up. It’s Friday, again, and Iwaizumi’s coming over, again, and he really wants to just get this _right_ before the other arrives. Several failed attempts lay scattered about the page.

“Stupid Iwa-chan,” he mutters to himself, dragging the eraser aggressively against the peaks of his hair. A voice pipes up behind him.

“Who are you calling stupid?”

Oikawa shrieks, limbs flailing and pencil going flying in the crossfire. His chair starts to tip back, but Iwaizumi catches it easily and sets it upright with a snort.

“You sure do get wrapped up in that, don’t you?” he asks, amused. Oikawa’s face burns red.

“Iwa-chan!” he protests indignantly, arms crossing defensively over his chest, “Don’t you know it’s rude to sneak up on people!” Iwaizumi bends down to pick up the pencil and hands it to him with a smirk.

“Since when have you ever cared about manners?” he comments dryly, sitting in the spare chair with his legs wrapped around the back like some sort of heathen.

“Rude,” Oikawa mumbles, turning back to his paper. A dark streak of graphite mars the face of one of the failed attempts, created in his momentary panic. He huffs, glaring at his friend. “Look what you did.”

Iwaizumi leans over, shoulder brushing against the setter’s. He blinks and Oikawa bites his lip. _Shit_ , he’d forgotten Iwaizumi was the one he was drawing. “Is that… me?”

For all of their faults, the sketches are still clearly of his childhood friend. Inexplicable embarrassment lodges itself in his throat. Oikawa looks down at his lap uncomfortably while Iwaizumi tugs the paper a little closer, humming.

“You’re really talented,” he says softly, and Oikawa’s eyes snap up. The other whacks his arm when he notices him staring. “Oh don’t look at me like that, I’m sure you already know.”

“Er,” Oikawa starts, “Not really… I've never really shown anyone my art. Besides you, I guess” A small smile crosses Iwaizumi’s face.

“I’m glad I’m the first, then. And you are,” he returns. At Oikawa’s look of confusion, he brings a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. “Talented, I mean. Since no one‘s gotten the opportunity to tell you.” Oikawa laughs. 

“Such a sap, Iwa-chan, how embarrassing.” The ace splutters and punches his shoulder. Oikawa barely flinches, too busy laughing at the rising blush on the other’s face.

“It’s not! Ugh, it’s your fault anyway,” Iwaizumi grumbles, and as red dances across the other’s cheeks, Oikawa briefly reconsiders his view on painting. Perhaps color isn’t so bad, afterall. 

“Mmm, well I really don’t think I did too good of a job. Doesn’t really look like you.” And it doesn’t, in Oikawa‘s eyes. The frustration from earlier is still very much so present. The ace looks at him incredulously.

“I literally just told you it looks great, what are you not getting here?”

Oikawa looks from Iwaizumi to the paper and back again. Fondness wells in his chest at the sight of the other’s pout.

“Nothing can compare to the original,“ he says, echoing his friend's words from the week prior. Iwaizumi bristles, opening his mouth to chew Oikawa out, but falls short as the setter reaches out to cup his face in his hands. He trails a thumb down Iwaizumi’s cheek.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” he continues, “lines just can’t do it justice.” Iwaizumi seems at a loss for words, mouth parted ever so slightly. Oikawa presses the pad of his thumb into his bottom lip, and the other inhales sharply. A beat passes and neither moves. Iwaizumi’s eyes flick down to Oikawa’s mouth. 

Everything in him is screaming at him to lean in, to do what he’s never been brave enough to do. For once, he listens and inhales, finally, _finally_ pressing his mouth to Iwaizumi’s after all these years of imagining. The other makes a quiet noise of surprise, but doesn’t pull away. Euphoria rushes through Oikawa’s veins, warm and sweet—the feeling of acceptance.

Fingers thread into the hair just above his nape and he shivers. He feels overwhelmingly, incomparably _good._ He’s here with Iwaizumi, just the two of them, pressed together, and it's nothing like he’s ever felt before. The ace breaks away first, leaning their foreheads together and breathing shallowly against his face. 

“ _Oikawa,_ ” he whispers, and _fuck_ does that tone do things to the setter’s heart. 

“Shh,” Oikawa hushes, heart in his throat and he leans back in. His lips brush against Iwaizumi’s as he speaks. “Later.”

He smiles into the kiss as their mouths meet again, and he feels Iwaizumi do the same. It hardly registers that this is _actually_ happening—it feels like he’s in a dream. They part again for air. 

“Shit, Oikawa, you’re so–” the ace tries again, but Oikawa shushes him.

“We’ll figure it out later,” he promises, threading their fingers together. And they will, he knows they will, but for now he’s just content to be in this moment with the other. He leans back in, pencil and paper forgotten in front of them. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! Comments and Kudos are always appreciated <3.


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